MY OWN SONG.
O glad am I that I was born!For who is sad when flaming mornBursts forth, or when the mighty nightCarries the soul from height to height!
To me, as to the child that sings,The bird that claps his rain-washed wings,The breeze that curls the sun-tipped flower,Comes some new joy with each new hour.
Joy in the beauty of the earth,Joy in the fire upon the hearth,Joy in that potency of loveIn which I live and breathe and move!
Joy even in the shapeless thoughtThat, some day, when all tasks are wrought,I shall explore that vasty deepBeyond the frozen gates of sleep.
